listen for the silence
by Tariel H
Summary: A meeting. A chance. A bar and some cigarettes. Her blue lipstick, bluer than the sky or the ocean, stained against his memory. That's all it takes. Because, in the end, someone like him will not last long loving her.
1. Fascination

**A/N: I've agonized over this story for the past two days. Not wholly satisfied but it will suffice until I can make it better. Inspired by Nat King Cole's music, who is a phenomenal musician and I suggest you check him out. **

**Comments, thoughts and reviews are always appreciated.  
**

**Dedicated to thatquietgirl  
**

* * *

It's the sound of heels that wake him, that gentle _click-clack, click-clack, _the ray of sunshine that illuminates the dim lighting of the club as thin finger prop the metal door open.

_"Welcome to Sinner's Nest." _He calls out to her, green eyes squinting at the sudden onslaught of light.

The day has dragged on somnolently. Nothing had changed, between his shifts, the jazz trio's soft melodies ringing his between his ears. The air, once calm with a hint of normality stirred as dust on a highway previously un-traversed.

She walks in, head held high, surveying the quiet bar. There are no patrons, daylight still creeping at the edges of horizon but only for another hour until twilight. In an hour, the people will then emerge from the shadows, making their way to the Sinner's Nest.

Trent's eyes travel back to the woman, sitting in his section, elbows propped on the glass counter. Her skin is pale, fragile as the inner layers if an onion. He feels as if she could break, just by looking. She oozes affluence, wealth, yet a stability he craves.

Trent has never seen her before, not in town, definitely not in this upscale jazz bar that he likes to call his second home. Either way she belongs here, everything about her screaming wealth and old money, down to velvet wedges criss-crossing her thighs.

Her hair is dyed sensually black, akin to the starless night outside, small teal colored braids holding the messy bun up past the nape of her neck. The soft shawl around her shoulders dips at a seductive angle down her shoulder blades, exposing that snow-white skin to the cold air.

But it is not her dark eyeliner that his eyes are drawn too, nor the diamonds nestling in small earlobes. All of this entrances him, and yet it is her lips he is drawn to. It is her lips, heart shaped and moist.

Her lipstick is the epitome of blue. It pulls along from the side of her lip whenever she smiles over at him, the bartender, but she's only looked at him that once, then seems to retreat to someplace far away, an un-light cigarette hanging from her mouth.

"Need a light?" He has made his way over to her, for a better eye. Tension is building in the room, mounting even when she doesn't care to look up at him. Now, his words have pulled her from that distant place. She is here, yet not, her eyes wandering to every place any part of her is missing from here.

"That would be lovingly." He pulls a box of matches from under the counter. And lights her cigarette for her. Trent takes in her mussed curled black and teal hair, takes her grey eyes and a small line on the left side of her face that adds to her half smile that she wears now. Not a full one, she is holding back but even for him.

"Thank you." A pause, and belated, Trent realizes she is waiting on him. She is eyeing him, waiting for a move to be made but all of the words have disappeared from the tip of his tongue, even the never ending monologue that runs through his head.

The jazz trio finishes "Star crossed lovers", swinging languidly into "Pretend".

Trent cocks his head to the side, black locks falling over his light green eyes as the jazz trio starts up one of his favorite tracks, Pretend. Smooth melodies spring. Simple chords create the bulk of the track, one of Trent's favorite from the master (Nat King Cole) himself, but nevertheless they strike a chord within the young man. So absorbed is he in the song, he almost doesn't notice the parting of the woman's lips, singing along softly to the instrumental-

"_And if you sing this melody, you'll be pretending just like me." _It's not the voice of a professional singer, but it is husky, coming deep from her throat. Those blue lips part, softly blowing minty smoke in his Trent's face, daring him to say a word of protest.

"_The world is mine, it can be yours my friend,-" _He we stretches out his arms from either side- finishing-

_"So why don't you pretend?" _His timbre is powerful and rich. feeling the crevices of the Sinner's Nest with a warmth in the way only a powerful voice can. The woman giggles, clapping and so do the members of the jazz trio not playing.

"What's your name?" He finally breaks and asks. This beautiful, mysterious woman is anything but forthcoming.

"Depends on who's asking." She responds, coyly.

"Trent."

"Trent. A pretty ordinary, run of the mill name." He was almost hurt, but her smile had widened, crossing its way up pale cheeks to those light grey eyes.

"What's your name, bonny lass?"

"So you're Scottish?" Now she's teasing him, leaning forward, really smiling at him now and his heart is pounding in his chest, ears red.

"On my fathers side."

"Hmm… You're the oldest aren't you?"

"Yes. Oldest of three. You're an only child?"

"Yes and no."

"Mona Lisa." He grumbles, propping his hand under his chin, trying not to look aggravated.

"Some would say." She shrugs, nonchalantly not noticing or caring about the effect her presence is causing him.

"Tell me your name." Instead, she drops her cigarette in the ashtray, placing anther one between azure lips. Instinctively, Trent lights a match, leaning forward, lighting her cigarette for her. The proximity is, well close. He sees the shadow of the flame against her cheek, dancing. Her lashes are downcast, smoking billowing in a steady stream into his face, his eyes flickering shut breathing it down into his lungs.

Cancer be damned.

"Gwendolyn Brooks." The words are pushed out hesitantly, eyes flickering back up to his face for a half a heartbeat, taking his jet black hair, green eyes holding nothing but curiosity.

"Good night. I should be going." She states, abruptly, grey flickering back up to green, as if she is trying to say _I'm sorry. _

"Will I see you again?"

At this she laughs, exposing perfectly white teeth, pressing the half finished cigarette against the ashtray. Her nails aren't manicured, but are shaped beautifully covered with a clear lacquer. Trent reaches out, brushing his fingers against her. She sighs.

"Probably." She states with an air of finality. Gwen's hand grips her shawl, pulling it over ivory shoulders. She slides down from the glass chair exposing a slender, feminine figure. Her walk is quick, graceful, head thrown up, holding the undeniable air of a queen. Something causes her to pause at the edge of the door, and she turns back to face him, clear nails shimmering in the light. One hand tucks a strand of curled hair behind her ear, looking up at him. Her eyes are black in this light, infinitively fathomless, deep and esoteric.

"Good night, Trent." And she is gone. The rain outside stops, and Trent is left, bewildered, unsatisfied, cravng for something he cannot quite comprehend.

"Did that really happen?" He wonders aloud to himself, causing the trio on stage to chuckle.

Her glass and her daiquiri are still on the bar. The ashtray is full of half crushed cigarette buds, faintly traced with that blue lipstick.

…

..

.

_It was fascination_

_I know_

_And it might have ended_

_Right then, at the start_

_Just a passing glance_

_Just a brief romance_

_And I might have gone_

_On my way_

_Empty hearted._


	2. Islands

His heart is loud. So, so loud and slippery hot within the cavern of his chest. She faintly disappeared from his life, easy as shadow, and now she's back. Not fabulous, not dressed in pumps that reveal the curves of her legs or a dress that hugs the line of her body.

She is normal.

_Probably. _The last word she said to him.

For a while after that, she held a special place in his heart. But three months hasn't changed a think, despite what his brain tells to his heart.

He keeps this special place just for her, like a "Reserved" sign on a quiet corner table in a restaurant. Despite the fact he didn't have a hope of seeing her again. But here she is, in the quiet corner of a rundown coffee shop. On this alley, the buildings are sandwiched together, stacked in precarious pillars that reach up almost scraping the sky. Garbage piles are pushed against a grimy alleyway, this little shop the only clean space for at least a block and a half.

"It can't be her." Trent mutters to himself. The girl he met was fabulous, and is average. And yet he can't talk his eye from her. She moves her wrist, gold glinting,. That is when is he sees them.

Those muddy gold bracelets, glistening against skin the color of milk. Trent closes his eyes, pausing. If his eyes travel up the sinuous curve of her arm, will he see that velvet black chocker clasping her neck, or that mussed starless hair? Will he see white cheeks, blue lips, or a snub nose set under wide eyes?

The answer to half these questions is _no _when courage finally steels itself to look at this phantom woman. She is different and the same, that vacant expression in her downcast eyes pulls at fragile strands of his memory, even though he is gazing at creamed sheets of paper.

Her hair is short, coming just down past her ear where black diamond's nestle. Teal streaks are still braided, though silver bells no longer chime and swing. Today, there is no violently blue lipstick, but a cerulean gaze glinting in the light. She doesn't look up, not even as he presses his hands against the glass.

_Is it worth it- _He asks himself. _She didn't come back for you. But she's here now. _Mind made up, he slides through the door, eyes focusing on the nine red table set up in the shape of an L. Gwen sits on the far right, near th window. Her eyes flicker up at him, then back down, expression unchanging.

_She's forgotten all about me_, he decided. _I wasn't important to her, after all. _But, know he's here, in the same vicinity. She's so close he can touch her. It doesn't matter if she'd forgotten about him, Trent decides. He'll try and jog her memory.

"I was hoping I'd see you again." He sits, closest to the window observing her.

Her lips are soft. Or seem so. A quiet voice emits from them.

"Trent." Not angry. Not upset. Just a tone of neutral-ness.

"Also a bartender, musician and singer." He ticks each on his finger, and a ghost of a smile covers her lips. She directs her eyes to the window. Outside, snow shivers down in fat flakes. Them seem to huddle together for warmth, swept away to close and far places by the wind.

Gwen's eyes dart up to his. It's a subtle beauty she radiates. Her eyes are made of ruthlessness and silver. A hard, unbendable silver. A silver that would first break before giving in.

"You look different now. Feel different." He says, helplessly innocence, only trying to please. Only trying to make her smile.

"How so?" A quirk of her eyebrow, lashes downcast. She's back to scribbling or drawing or whatever she's so absorbed on the cream sheets of paper. Coyly reluctant to acknowledge his statement or his presence.

"When I first met you, you were... Enigmatic. Mysterious. Seductive. You flaunted what you had, attracting me to you and vice versa. Now you're just here. Not visible. Not noticeable. For all I know, you could be part of the background."

There is a pause. "Except to you. You notice me" She adds in an undertone.

"It's your manner. That quiet air around you. You're an...abstract character. I can't not notice you." At this, she dips her head lower to the paper, muttering something he cannot quite hear but the blush is apparent.

"You've only met me twice. "

"I know. It's a shame. But, we're here now."

"Don't think so. You're here." She's quick to correct, quick to put him to suspicion.

"And where are you?"

"Someplace. _On my own_." Metallic eyes meld into hard steel with the emphasis of the last three words.

A waitress walks by, a pretty blonde thing, her cleavage spilling out from the sides of her yellow dress. "For you, sir." She places a bran muffin on a baby blue plate, trying to catch Trent's eye.

"I got you something." He points to the muffin, smiling foolishly, and the suspicion fades from her grey eyes. She sets the pencil down, point towards Trent. Her lips purse. fingers picking up the brown, cake-like treat.

"Bran muffins. These are pretty good."

"Does this mean we can meet for muffins again?" As if he can win her over with muffins and small talk fit for teenagers. _Dumbass._

"No." He's expecting nothing less. She gathers her papers around her, one slipping. He spots pale green eyes, much like his own and reaches for the drawing. It is him, his eye, his smile.

"Give it back." She snatches it, flustered, face red down to her ears.

"Will it be another two months before I see you again?" Trent calls to her retreating back. She turns, purses her lips, not bothering to grace him with an answer.

...

..

.

_Oh, I thought you knew that I'd be coming  
The way you move, a foreign groove, at night_

_I could never  
I could never hold you_

_Watch it rise and where you hide your pearl_  
_Feel the tide low where you cast those stones you wear_  
_When no one's home, do they feel cold on your bones_  
_All the years I miss your warmth_  
_Have you missed my warmth?_  
_On your island oh..._

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**A/N: My muse ran away with this. The song at the both is Islands by Young the Giant. I need to stop writing at 12 am.  
**


	3. Wolves

The sky is blue and clear and deep. Trent feels as if he could rise up, sink into its depth. In this vast pane of blue, the sun lies in a corner, pale and whitewashed. Today the sun offers no warmth.

No tingling warmth in his palms. No people out in this park (save for him), which means there won't be crumpled one dollar bills and coins sticky with jelly and anything else in people's pocket won't find their way to the bottom of his guitar case.

There is no one to play for, no one to he plays for himself.

_"Going Back to the corner where I first saw you  
Gonna camp in my sleeping bag I'm not gonna move  
Got some words on cardboard, got your picture in my hand  
Saying, "If you see this girl can you tell her where I am? "_

_Some try to hand me money, they don't understand_  
_I'm not broke, I'm just a broken hearted man_  
_I know it makes no sense but what else can I do_  
_How can I move on when I'm still in love with you?"_

Soft clapping breaks his concentration. Gwen is standing before him, leaning close into him, hands on her knees. She's glamorous again, all at once sober and elegant and innocent. Ebony curls are piled high, soft as sugar, pinned with a blue rose that is real for she smells of roses and softness. Velvet ribbons cinch around her dainty wrists, the thin one clasped at her neck. A trembling thing. Her skirt climbs down past her knees, cerulean lacings embroidered at the edges and in-between the pleats, silk stocking outlining the shape of her thigh.

A gentle wind blows in there direction, and he smells it stronger, that ghastly scent of roses.

It doesn't suit her, that fragrance.

In his mind, she isn't fragile, like that rose. She's strong, cool, confident. Elusive like water.

"Are you impervious to the cold?" She asks, without preamble, with a hint of a smile curls on her lips.

"Slowly building up a tolerance to it. Best to be prepared for any weather." Trent laughs, running a hand through his sable locks. Gwen shakes her head in mock display, displacing a curl. She tucks it behind her ear, saying softly-

"You'll die of hypothermia."

"I won't. I can't die yet." He must have said it too fast, or with an odd tone because she gives him a strange look, fingering the bow at her neck, nails manicured with a hint of clear polish. Her whole aura borders on over-extravagance, at least next to him with his green woolen scarf pulled over his neck, pale green beanies over his ears. Underneath the scarf, a simple, black long sleeved shirt with the green imprint of a hand over his heart. His calloused (musicians) fingers are exposed and cold, tips numb from cold.

But, he is oblivious to discomfort; she is transfixed him.

Y_ou overwhelm me._

"God you're so beautiful." He can't help but whisper. The metal in her eyes today is kind. Soft, almost. She kneels down, resting her hands over his and it feels so natural, so right even though his is average and she is extraordinary.

"19 days is too long without seeing you." The side of her lip pulls up in an awkward smile, accentuated with a shrug of her shoulders. Not apology is offered, and he doesn't want one. Apologizes wouldn't bring her to him.

"It can't be helped." She mutters, stands clasping her fingers with his.

"Maybe not to you." It comes out as an accusation, but he softens his words, squeezing her fingertips.

"I have something for you. But not here." She glances over her shoulders, as if afraid someone might appear.

"I don't have much time." She adds, pushing out the words quickly from her pretty lips. But a man is already walking towards them, eyes paler than the sky, irises almost white.

There is a sense of inborn refinement in this man, in his straight shoulders, high head, carefully measured steps. Dressed to kill in a black tie tuxedo, he leans on a cane with the head of a wolf on his head.

"Who are you?" Trent's grip tightens on Gwen, not to the point of being uncomfortable. Just overprotective.

"Don't play games, little boy." The man's voice is rasping, husky. The voice of high breeding.

"You're in the wrong part of town. Sir." He could have killed himself for the sir, but the damage is done. The park and is bare limbed trees, it's broken pieces of metal and mechanics and robots echo with unkind laughter.

"The peasant has a backbone." He roars, too loud, voice grating on both Trent and Gwen's ears.

"Shut up Duncan." Trent feels Gwen step closer, her front _so close _ to his back. She isn't a afraid of him, Trent realizes. So neither should he.

"Leave us alone." The man ignores him, blank eyes searching for Gwen.

"It's time to go Gwen." A warning, undisclosed. Unavoidable.

"No I still have-"

"Now." This man, Duncan, leaves no room for argument

She walks away with this man of an iceberg, soft hands slipping from his, guiding her brother? Cousin? Fiancée? away from him.

"Gwen?" Sinister foreboding fills him. She says nothing, making as if she does not here him.

"Gwen, wait!" Trent starts to hobble towards them, legs tired with cold.

She doesn't look back, one arm laced through that cold man's. And, with his heart falling, Trent understands.

He understands it perfectly: she is not for him.

And this was never meant to be.

...

..

.

_Dear rabbit my legs are getting weak chasing you__  
__The snow fields wouldn't seem so big if you knew__  
__That this blood on my teeth it is far beyond dry__  
__And I've captured you once but I wasn't quite right__  
__So I'm telling you that you'll be safe with me_.

_Rabbit, my claws are dull now so don't be afraid _  
_I could keep you warm as long as you can just try to be brave _  
_Yes I know I'm a wolf and I've been known to bite _  
_But the rest of my pack I have left them behind _  
_And my teeth may be sharp and I've been raised to kill _  
_But the thought of fresh meat it is making me I'll _  
_So I'm telling you that you'll be safe with me._

* * *

**A/N: I have a problem with making Duncan an antagonist in my stories. I admit. Beware of incoming angst. Maybe. We'll see. Today the song is I know I'm a Wolf, sung by the Young Heretics. Another favourite of mine. **


	4. Sun Down

"You didn't have to do that." Gwen presses her nose against the windowpane of the car. It speeds them steadily, paved roads smooth carrying all but three souls to nowhere.

" _I did have too._" Duncan's thumb strokes the head of his cane, a wolf's head, tracing carefully carved fangs. There is so sorrow, or regret in his words or actions.

"I did what I had to do Gwen." He looking for a response from her. No bad blood between family, he insists.

"He wasn't doing anything wrong." Gwen finally acknowledges him. He lets out a sigh, loosens the muscles in his shoulders.

"He doesn't have to be doing anything." She seethes, silently, kicking off black pumps and stockings, freeing her toes. They rest against the front pocket in the seat in front of her, bunching the ruffles of her skirt up to her thigh. Little rebellions like these keep her sane.

"Your mother will pitch a fit at the state of your dress."

"I don't care."

"And what do you care about, pretty girl?" She unpins the rose in her hair, letting black curls lose. The exhibition is over, anyways. No need for pretenses, false or true. Too many faces and lies. People don't care for her art, she's just a commodity. A means to an end for her family (or what's left of it).

"Him."

"That's dangerous enough. You'll kill the chap." Foul amusement, at her expense. Duncan isn't trying to be cruel, only protecting her. But she doesn't want, doesn't need to be protected anymore. She closes her eyes, ignoring her cousin's tirade, seeing green eyes, his voice echoing in her ear.

_..._

_.._

_._

_Ship's gone and run its course_  
_ Through a tired lack of force_  
_ And all that matters branded on your arm_

_ So you don't forget how we first met_  
_ Suddenly I have this feeling_  
_ Tasting copper in my mouth_  
_ I look to watch the clouds for my last breath_

_ When you grow into you skin_  
_ I'll be the hope joining the wall_  
_ And all the scraps of world joined at the hand_  
_ Are there to hold you in our secret plan._

* * *

**A/N : A bit of insight for what's going on in this story. You get a cookie if you guess right. The song is Copper Down, by The Boy Who Trapped the Sun. **


	5. my gun, your head

"Where has she gone." The man says in a manner that leaves no room for not answering. He pushes another bullet into the barrel of the gun with a _click _that reverberates around the room.

"I don't know. She left this morning. Didn't say where she was as going."

"I won't ask again, _amigo._ Where has she gone."

"I'll tell you again, I don't know." Duncan shares at his fingers, curled in against each other. He isn't the type of man to pray, but in this darkness that stinks with the promise of death, he prays.

Not for himself. He prays that Gwen makes it out alive.

"Then we'll do this the hard way." Brilliant green eyes peer out from the darkness. The man brings the pistol to the light.

There are six bullets in the gun, all unfired.

"You know what happens next."

* * *

_Blood and ink stain the walls._  
_Silently with bloodied knuckles, I carry on_  
_Hoping it's not too wrong._  
_You said the nights were far too long._  
_'Honey, it's just the start of it_

_Your knife,_  
_My back!_  
_My gun,_  
_Your head!_

* * *

**A/N: Yes, I know it's been a long, long time, but I needed to get real life sorted out. This is a teaser. Things might get a little dark from here. **

**Read and Review. **


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